


Ipseity

by Pseudothyrum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Chilton only appears in passing, Depersonalization, Gen, Identity Issues, also he is a jerk, but he is a sad jerk, implied/referenced psychological abuse, so is Gideon I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:06:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudothyrum/pseuds/Pseudothyrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He felt constantly as though he was just awakening, though he knew he hadn’t been asleep.</p><p>Abel Gideon begins to slip away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ipseity

**Author's Note:**

> For you, darling

Abel knew very well what he was, and what he was not. He might not remember everything of what he had done, but he could still feel his wife’s blood on his hands, warm and familiar. He could still see them all spread out before him, so still and red. This was what he had done. He was no Chesapeake Ripper. 

“ _But what,_ ” whispered a niggling little voice in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Dr Frederick Chilton, “ _if you were?_ ”

***

The first thing to go was their voices. He had heard their screams once, replayed them in his head often enough. A sort of lullaby to drown out the hospital and the small, daily indignities of living the rest of your life in a padded prison. And then one day he awoke and they were gone, replaced by the insistent, incantatory repetition of his... of _the Ripper’s crimes_. 

It didn’t take him long to lose the feeling of her blood on his hands. It was as though she were dying a second time, losing her like that, and it felt so wrong because it wasn’t his anymore, she wasn’t his. Somewhere along the way his hands were coated with new blood, strange blood. It was all he could feel, and he was drowning in it.

***

Everything began to feel unreal, as though he had just begun living, as though everything before this moment had been a dream. He felt constantly as though he was just awakening, though he knew he hadn’t been asleep. It wore away at him until his past felt like a memory of a memory, fuzzy and indistinct. He couldn’t quite remember being the Ripper, but he couldn’t quite remember not being him either. He couldn’t quite remember his wife, but reliable sources assured him that he had murdered her. 

The voice in the back of his mind grew louder, and he felt more and more like he was walking through a dream. He spent more time living behind his eyes, peering down at hands that he knew were his, hands that he didn’t quite know anymore. The voice was no longer Frederick Chilton, but it was just as insistent. He felt himself wearing thin, like old cloth grown shiny and grey from overuse. There had been a pattern here once, colours and shapes that had meant something to him, but they were gone now. He was stretched taut, not quite worn away but getting there, the last few threads clinging to each other, ready to snap. 

***

He felt as though someone had cut him open and taken everything out. If he reached down now he expected to find only empty skin stretched across his bones. He would stare for hours at the reflective surfaces in his cell, during the night when no one was around. He saw his face, the face that he had always had, but he wasn’t sure who was behind it, couldn’t tell who was looking out through the eyes. “ _The Ripper_ ,” whispered the voice. 

The voice had wormed its way in, entrenched itself in his mind, consumed his thoughts. It was his voice now, he thought, though he couldn’t quite remember what his own voice sounded like anymore.

When he killed the nurse he felt... accomplished. Proud, even. He had recreated it perfectly, just as the Ripper... just as _he_ had done before. People came then, to marvel at him through the glass, so many people expecting so much from this monster. He did his best to play the part. 

***

When he escaped he felt unmoored, gloriously free but frighteningly adrift. He had a purpose, and he knew what he would do. He plastered over the empty spaces in his head with plans, filled in the gaps with hate and anger and terrible purpose. He would exact his revenge in blood and fear, and he would find the Chesapeake Ripper. He might find another man, who would either kill him or help him understand who he really was; either would be a blessed relief. Or he would find himself, a mirror no longer warped by a life lived in glass boxes with people digging through his brain.


End file.
